My Favorite Bride (6 page)

William cackled. “I'm trying to think of another
plan. Anything would be better than . . .”

Duncan grinned. “Than her? Aye, so I would suppose.”

“I was going to say a party.” William leaned an arm against the mantel and studied Duncan. “You might as well know. I believe I'll let Teresa snare me.”

Duncan looked stunned. “No! Why?”

“I need a wife.” William despised men who brooded over lost loves and moaned over opportunities lost. But the passing of Mary had scarred his children. The realization that he had failed her had marked him. So he coped in the best way he knew—with military discipline and exacting standards.

Somehow, in the past year, he'd seen discipline vanish and standards slip. Half the time he didn't know what was happening in his own house. The girls were growing up, and he didn't know what to do, how to handle them. “Although Miss Prendregast looks promising, the governesses have been nothing but a trial.”

Duncan leered. “She looks very promising.”

“But no governess can take the place of a mother in the girls' lives. They need stability, so I'll take a wife.” He walked to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. “I made a list of my requirements.”

“A list of your requirements?” Duncan fought a grin. “What would they be?”

“Most are obvious. My wife must be of my social class. She must have a pristine reputation. She should be accomplished in the ways that will
advance my family—she should organize parties and help my daughters prepare for their debut.”

“Sensible.”

“She should also be pleasant to look upon, with a well-modulated voice.”

“Of course. For your sake.”

“Yes.” William knew Duncan would comprehend that requirement. “Teresa fills the demands of the list.”

“Plus, you wouldn't have to put forth the effort to court her. She's coming to you.”

“Precisely.”

Deadpan, Duncan said, “You silly romantic. You'll sweep a woman off her feet using love words like that.”

William didn't understand why, but restlessness seized him. He paced to the window and looked out into the park. “That's the point. A man doesn't choose his wife based on romance. He chooses his wife based on her background, on her suitability, on her position in society.”

“The countess is more than just pleasant to look upon. She's very pretty.” Duncan couldn't have sounded more bored.

“Yes, I believe she is, but that's not important.” Nor did William particularly care one way or another about her dark and dramatic good looks or her petite figure. “What's important is that she's a model of integrity.”

“Perhaps you're not as informed about the countess as you suppose.”

Duncan's muttered comment surprised William.
“If you know something I should know—”

“No! No, I just . . .” Duncan waved a negligent hand. “It's nothing.”

Duncan's attitude surprised William. “I thought you'd be happy I was considering marriage.”

Duncan slapped his palm on the desk. “That isn't marriage, it's a bloodless union. There are times I'm glad I'm not wealthy. I'll marry for romance, and list be damned.”

Sometimes Duncan alarmed William with his reckless disregard for good sense. “That's not a wise way to approach a matter of such importance.”

“So it's not.” With a hasty change of subject, Duncan asked, “You'll keep me informed about the plans?”

“You'll be an integral part of any move I make.”

Cocking a thoughtful eyebrow, Duncan asked, “Is your governess one of Throckmorton's people?”

“No.” Sometimes Duncan annoyed William. “She's my governess.”

“Did she read this letter?”

“It was sealed.”

“That's not a deterrent to the skillful.”

Sometimes Duncan
really
annoyed William. “She didn't read the letter. Lady Bucknell vouched for her.”

“All right! I was being cautious.
You're
cautious.” Duncan took a drink. “And how are you going to sleep when you know there's a woman who looks like that down the hall?”

Sometimes Duncan deserved to be kicked into next week. William took care not to reveal his annoyance, for if he allowed Duncan one hint of his unwilling interest in Miss Prendregast, Duncan would harass him unmercifully. “There have been more handsome governesses.” Certainly Miss Prendregast seemed to have no awe of him, nor any interest, either, and that was not in the usual run of things.

But good. It was good that she didn't care for him.

Miss Prendregast guaranteed she would remain here through the year, and he believed her. Yet he wondered—would he survive the torment of having her in the house? She had an air about her . . . defiance, as if she hid a secret. Determination, as if she could deal with every situation. A harshness, as if she'd seen the worst of men and expected no better.

And undermining all that, a sweet astonishment, as if she recognized the attraction she held for him and didn't know how to handle it. Oh, yes. He'd wanted to stand as they conversed, to intimidate her with his height. Instead he'd had to sit to disguise a rather basic, obvious, primitive reaction to an attractive female.

Duncan watched William as if William had blurted out his thoughts rather than carefully concealing them. “Your other governesses were twittering idiots. I listened at the window. I heard this one giving you hell. She's going to be tough to resist.”

“I don't like women who don't know their place.”

Duncan grinned again, but this time with bitter perception. “Tell yourself that. Keep telling yourself that.”

Chapter Six

“My gracious, young man, you certainly know how to show an old woman a lively dance.” Valda, the countess of Featherstonebaugh, leaned against the marble column in the Throckmortons' grand ballroom and fanned herself with her peacock feather fan. “I'll wager you're popular with the ladies.”

The ridiculous Lord Heath smirked and handed the countess her cane. “Thank you, ma'am, I like to think I please them in my own way. Could I get you a refreshing ice or a lemonade? After such strenuous exercise, a lady of your advanced age must be exhausted.”

She closed her fan and tapped it on his arm. “You charmer! If you would take one more moment out of your precious time to fetch me a lemonade, I'd be grateful.”

“Yes, ma'am. Glad to, ma'am.” He swept her a bow and walked off, a tall, dark, and almost handsome man.

Except for that horrible rash of disgusting pimples that so marred his features. Valda waited until he was out of sight, then she walked off, smiling and nodding as she moved like a she-wolf through the pack of bleating sheep. One of the young ewes wore a feather in her upswept hair and a simper on her dimpled face. Another wore a ball gown of shimmering gold silk which made her complexion sallow. Of course, the male sheep all dressed alike: dark coats, plaid trousers, shiny black leather shoes and snowy white shirts.

In her purple velvet turban with its diamond clip and her purple velvet gown with a pink silk overjacket that buttoned to the waist, Valda looked better than all of them.

She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the many mirrors which ringed the ballroom. Or rather—she would, if she weren't so old.

In her face and form, she saw the remnants of the beauty that had caught an earl. Tall, charming, elegant—she was still all those.

But old. So old. She hated this business of aging. She fought it, but she was losing, and to a woman of her breeding and intelligence, that was unthinkable. She had spent her whole life overcoming every challenge life offered. She had been genteel and poor. She had married noble and rich. Her husband had lost his money and she'd been exiled on his family's damned primitive Lake District estate . . . ah, getting out of Maitland Manor had
been her greatest success. She had discovered a way to make more money than anyone could imagine, and at the same time she got to outwit the dogs that protected these finely dressed, vapid sheep who danced, laughed, and flirted, all unsuspecting while a she-wolf slunk undetected through their midst.

Valda liked being smarter than everyone else. But she hated the liver spots on her cheeks, the stoop in her back, the cane she had to carry. Most of all, she hated the way the pimple-faced young men condescended to dance with her. Thirty years ago they had begged for the honor. Now they did their duty by her—and dancing made her hip ache.

Featherstonebaugh, the old fool, could still gavotte. She stopped behind a tall vase filled with magnificent flowers and watched Rupert prance about the floor with young Miss Kaye. He was spry as ever, chasing after girls who weren't half as pretty as Valda had been. If he could, he would have abandoned her completely, except she tied the purse strings around her arthritic fingers. And lately . . . lately, she thought she made him a little nervous. Perhaps, after all these years, he had begun to realize he had married a she-wolf who could turn on him and rip his throat out.

She rather enjoyed having him afraid of her, but it wouldn't do—more's the shame. For if he betrayed his wariness of her, people might start wondering if they really knew her. They would look deeper, and that would be unfortunate. After all, she knew everyone in English society, and they thought they knew her.

No, if she came under suspicion, there would be trouble. In her business, trouble was followed by more trouble, and usually death provided by a bullet between the eyes. She'd ordered that solution often enough herself. So she would have to be nicer to Rupert and stop treasuring thoughts of killing him. A widow didn't get invited to parties. A widow was expected to mourn, and if Valda couldn't go to parties, she couldn't collect the information these nicely dressed sheep provided so freely.

“Lady Featherstonebaugh.”

She jumped at the sound of young Throckmorton's voice. She hadn't heard him walk up behind her. She was getting a little deaf—also a liability in her business.

He stepped before her and bowed.

Some women thought him handsome. Valda didn't see it. He was too tall, too broad, too serious, and his stern gaze could poke holes in a woman's composure if she wasn't careful. “Garrick, lad, it's good to see you. Got any of that important business information about where I should invest my spare coinage?”
May I sit in your office, and send you off to get me a drink while I rummage through your desk drawers?

“Not tonight.” He held out his hand, and that gardener's daughter he'd been dunce enough to marry stepped up and took it. “Celeste and I wanted to thank you for gracing our first party with your presence.”

Valda smiled at them in benign, if false, delight. “My dears, we wouldn't miss your little celebra
tion.” With hidden maliciousness, she added, “Why, Rupert and I practically united you two lovebirds!”

That girl, that slut, that Celeste, didn't even have the grace to blush at the reminder of the disgraceful scene in the conservatory. She just opened her hazel eyes wide and said, “I feel that way too.” Taking Valda's arm, she squeezed it in a comradely manner.

Valda wanted to pull her arm away and snap out an insult. But that didn't fit her role of benevolent family friend, and if ever a family had been rich in international information, it was the Throckmortons. They had made spying a tradition, and she hoped to extract another nugget from young Throckmorton this very night.

He thwarted her with another bow. “If you don't mind, my lady, I'll leave Celeste in your care. I've had a messenger arrive with news of great importance for my, er, my import business, and I must speak with him at once.”

Valda wanted to shake off Celeste like a flea. Instead she brandished an admonishing finger at young Throckmorton. “What's up, dear boy? If this is an investment opportunity, you should tell your dear friends Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh.”

“Not exactly an investment opportunity.” He tugged at his collar. “Rather, we've suffered great losses from the deprecations of, er, rats, and I have been told we've discovered who the main breeding rats are. If you'll excuse me.”

Valda stared after him as he strode toward his office. A rat? Was that code? Was he talking about
them? About her? Surely not. She wasn't a small, furry, disgusting rodent. She was a wolf—and a wolf who had better discover, and immediately, what was happening in that office.

She turned to Celeste, who was still smiling that inane smile. “I know you don't want to care for a silly old woman when you could be dancing.”

Celeste blinked. “Oh, Lady Featherstonebaugh, I most definitely enjoy getting to know an
old
and honored guest.”

The little bitch had definitely emphasized the word
old
. Valda's hand twitched. She wanted to slap Celeste.

As revenge for Celeste's insolence, Valda caught her husband's eye. She snapped her chin up.

He scuttled across the dance floor to them.

To Celeste, she said, “You are too kind to me, my dear.” She placed Celeste's hand on Rupert's arm. “Our lovely young hostess is without a partner.”

Rupert couldn't believe his good luck. He'd been trying to get his paws on the new Mrs. Throckmorton since the first time he'd seen her, back when she was newly returned from Paris and flaunting her seductiveness in front of any man who showed interest. Now he wiggled his eyebrows, bowed, and led her onto the floor.

Valda stayed long enough to see that they were well and truly occupied, then she made her way to Throckmorton's office.

A voice came from the antechamber. Throckmorton's voice, raised in loud disbelief. “This is outrageous. I don't believe it. Who made this accusation?”

Valda strained to hear as another voice, low and indistinct, answered.

“I assure you, he hasn't the intelligence to fool me for so long,” Throckmorton proclaimed.

Valda took a long, silent breath. Clutched at her silk-covered chest.

The low voice answered again.

Valda crept closer.

“How likely is that? She's old.” Throckmorton sounded as if he were sneering. “Furthermore, they are revered Throckmorton family friends!”

Valda had heard enough. They were talking about Rupert . . . and her. Before long, Throckmorton would be convinced, and she . . . she would be dancing at the end of a silk rope.

She walked away from the door toward the ballroom. Once there, she swept the room with her gaze. The old fool, Rupert, was standing off to the side by himself, clutching his hand as if he were in pain.

Apparently, young Celeste had not been amenable to his groping.

Valda glared at him, caught his eye, and again jerked her chin. She watched as he tottered toward her, a bony, long-chinned, disreputable old man who she longed to leave behind. But as always, he hung around her neck, a burden dragging her down.

He knew too much. He scared too easily. He had to go with her . . . back to the Lake District and Maitland Manor. Back to the place where she'd hidden their cache of gold and jewels.

Once there, she would set their escape plan in motion, and they would disappear from England.

She rubbed her aching hip. If only she were still young enough to enjoy the adventure.